Water for the soul

“Let your tears come.  Let them water your soul.”

~ Eileen Mayhew

I’d prefer not to cry.  Unfortunately in recent days I have not been able to stop the flood gates from leaking over and drenching my cheeks.  It has nothing to do with grieving or the loss of anyone.  There isn’t some tragic heartbreak story to justify the waterfalls I continue to crank out on a regular occurrence.  They just seem to start and I’ve lost all control over them.

Crying to me is something that should happen only when you are at the bottom of the barrel, when you have no where else to turn and everything has completely turned to shit in your life.  Not something that happens when you sit up on the bench at the physiotherapist and while he ask you how you are, positions a hand either side of your wonky knee and pushes down to straighten a leg that just really doesn’t want to be straight.  Now it’s bad enough tears streaming down your face and your nose running in front of just the physio, but it’s pre-season… which means the physio’s room is full of pro footballers every time I visit.  I’m sure I must provide great entertainment to these fit, athletic males exercising and getting stretched out. “There’s that girl that cries,” I’m sure they must have a great laugh at it.  And if I wasn’t crying and someone else was, I’d probably laugh too.  It’s just a bit of pain, nothing worth crying over.  I know this.  It runs like a mantra through my head.  I prepare myself now every time before walking in to get straightened or having my stone like leg muscles coaxed through elbow prodding into “letting go”, to just relax, it’s not as painful as say… having a baby, suck it up and don’t be such a girl.  But as soon as my leg snaps open, laying straight on the bench, my knee screams in agony triggering the release of the flood gates.  My resolve to “not be such a girl” gone completely out the window as I struggle to just lie there.  To be completely cliched… no pain, no gain… right??

Today was the beginning of my proper gym rehabilitation sessions.  In my excitement I went out and bought a pair of joggers.  A pair of correctly fitted joggers, as I figured that I am doing all this hard work to fix my knee/leg up, then I need to have the correct equipment (ok, maybe it was more of a bribe to myself… you now have the right shoes, PT, gym and everything else you need so no excuses for not working your butt off and fixing your knee!).  Halfway through the 40 minute session and the waterworks began.  I didn’t want them, they weren’t invited, but didn’t matter what I tried, the tears stuck around.  I even made my PT cry at the end.  She felt awful about making me cry, so she cried, then I cried more.  Well, it was more that she felt awful about working me so hard that I cried, but she had to push cause that’s what she is paid to do.  And I want her to push, just like I want the physio to push, because there is nothing fun about walking around like a peg-legged pirate.  I’m sure that my soul must be well and truly watered by now and it’s none to soon, tomorrow I’m back at the physio for another round of leg straightening.

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